Constantine scanned the vicinity. No one. It was as if the cemetery had become completely deserted, that he and Ilia were the only two people in the world.
Wait. Diligence and discipline — were these not the virtues instilled by Ilia? It could still be a trap, his senses screamed. Be patient — or die!
Turning away from the forlorn figure of the Metropolitan, he concentrated on the alleys. Still empty.
Mentally, Constantine started a count, to mark the time and draw off desperation. With excruciating slowness, seconds combined into minutes. Finally, he decided the longer this stalemate continued, the higher was the chance of someone actually appearing, either by accident or intent, when he made his move — and what would he do then?
Constantine broke away from his cover and made a dash. Ilia’s face lit up with a mixture of astonishment and relief as he recognized the man who approached him.
“Constantine! My boy—”
His voice trailed off as he was overcome with emotion. There was so much one had to tell the other. A myriad of questions and answers passed between them, but they did not need to voice any, understanding reflecting in their eyes as they looked at each other wordlessly.
Gently, Constantine took the old man’s elbow and guided him along an alley, away from the open area.
Contantine’s descriptions were ragged as he recounted the meeting with Malinin, getting to the core, the reason behind everything.
The Kaganovich diaries.
As he told Ilia about the papers, Constantine asked: “Do you remember Stalin’s words to Molotov shortly before his death? At the map?”
The Metropolitan nodded. Those words were of a kind that was never easy to forget.
When Stalin surveyed the borders of Soviet territory after the war, he turned to Molotov and said:
From the clutches of capitalism, World War One freed a single country. World War Two established a socialist camp of several countries. Our next step is to free the entire world.
“A nuclear World War Three was Stalin’s dream, Father! It wasn’t madness of a sick, dying old man. Everything was real. The purges were building up, the names in the notepad marked and crossed. Jews. He was targeting Jews — those he’d spared years ago with great foresight. He would punish their alleged plot, their sympathizers and associates, their Zionist controllers in the newly-formed State of Israel, and the guardians of that state — Americans.”
Ilia’s voice was an urgent whisper. “Then you’re saying that those men in the Politburo…”
“They killed Stalin. Poisoned him at the Blizhniaya Dacha. Khrushchev, Malenkov, Beria, Molotov, Kaganovich — they all took part in the killing of their caesar.” Constantine paused, the hand-written confession still fresh in his memory. “Finally there’s proof.”
Ilia crossed himself. “So it’s true,” he said, shaking his head in bewilderment and stroking his white beard.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a shadow materialized.
An athletic man, clad in leather, was blocking their way. He projected a deceptive impression of mediocrity, someone easily ignored elsewhere — but not here, and not now!
“It’s okay, Constantine,” the Metropolitan said calmly. “This is Herman Weinstock of Free Action. He was the one who received your note.”
Constantine vaguely recognized the name. Weinstock was the mastermind of his escape to France.
“The area is secure, Your Eminence,” Weinstock said. “We are alone here. My people have taken positions around the cemetery to warn of any danger.”
“God bless you and your deeds,” Ilia said in acknowledgement.
“It doesn’t mean we must stay here long enough for the danger to come. It would be safer to leave — as soon as possible. I have a car waiting outside. Do you have the documents with you?”
Constantine’s heart spiked.
“What did you say?”
“The documents. Are they with you?”
It wasn’t the interest alone that rattled Constantine. Everything came together: the context of the words, the edge in the voice, the stance, the burning eyes. The face — emotionless, forgettable — was a mask scarier than the black balaclava of the monster who’d assaulted him on that dreadful night — or was it the same man? The eyes, my God, the eyes…
Several moments of the abrupt stupor produced an irritated scowl on the mask-like face of the stranger.
“Really, we have no time to waste. This place is dangerous. You’re only making things difficult for yourself,” Weinstock said, reaching inside his bomber jacket, whipping out a gun and pointing it at Ilia.
Before Constantine’s reflexes could work, the muzzle spat out a flash. The Metropolitan collapsed.
The gun shifted to Constantine’s face.
“Get down! Put your hands on the ground! Right now!”
Constantine did not follow the commands barked by Ilia’s killer. He stood petrified, reeling from a horror that returned to ravage his sanity! His eyes were on the old man’s inanimate body. FatherIlia had just been killed!
Trancelike, Constantine turned to Weinstock. The killer’s features were twisted with rage, hand drawn to deliver a blow. The motion was lightning-fast, practiced. But regaining clarity and decisiveness, Constantine made a swifter move. Just as the gun-wielding hand swung to impact against his skull, Constantine sidestepped the strike, and lunged out in a low stance, knees bent at right angles. His elbow, snapping out like a battering ram, stamped into Weinstock’s solar plexus.
A grunt of pain and shock accompanied the loss of balance. Even before Weinstock hit the ground, Constantine broke into a run.
He rushed along the long alley, searching for an opening. A searing white flash blazed, followed by a crack. What he momentarily feared as a gunshot was a rainstorm. The squall unleashed its full fury in an instant, lashing down at everything below the black skies.
And then more thunderclaps sounded as the ground at Constantine’s feet erupted—real gunshots, aimed at him! He zigzagged and dove sideways for cover.
Somewhere behind, the killer’s voice shouted, “Stop him!”
Shadows moved, blurred by the driving rain. A pincer formation of three men, one closing in, the others flanking.
There was no way out, but for one. Constantine jumped over the low fence that bordered off the graves, wet earth squishing under his feet as he darted past granite headstones and wooden crosses. He tried to visualize the cemetery’s layout, needing an avenue of escape, a direction to choose.
It didn’t matter. His pursuers limited his choices, surrounding him, cornering him. His shirt and jeans stuck to him, wet and heavy from the rain. Mud filled his shoes.
He stopped and glanced around. No route was left open by his enemies. They were circling around him, tightening a noose. But their ranks were still broken too far apart, having been forced to regroup by Constantine’s unexpected maneuver.
He found a weakness in their line, and charged headlong. One of his pursuers froze, taken aback, seeing that the quarry was running straight at him. The man tried to meet him with a rising knee, but Constantine flung himself into a crashing tackle, elbow out. Knocking into each other, Constantine was the one better off, his hit connecting, his opponent barely conscious as they landed.